Brigid of Kildare (23 page)

“Don’t forget about your own interests. If the manuscript really turns out to be the Book of Kildare, and we really do have the first image of the Virgin Mary, it’ll benefit you too.”

He refused to back down. “Of course it will. There’s no shame in that. Our goals are completely aligned. So why do you think I’d do anything to hurt our success? Or you?”

Once again, Declan was making complete sense. But she still could not surrender to his logic. Was it her own inability to trust or was it a sound internal warning? She didn’t know, but she determined to keep her feelings—and decision making—in check.

He then dramatically changed the subject. “We have a free evening in Rome. What would you say to peeking at the Catacomb of Priscilla?”

“Why the Catacomb of Priscilla?” Alex couldn’t understand why he’d want to head to one of Rome’s oldest catacombs—on the outskirts of the city—when they had so much to accomplish and so little time.

“I think we should take a look at one of the only other contenders for the first Virgin Mary image.”

Alex knew that the Roman catacombs were often thought to contain some of the earliest Christian imagery, although there was some evidence of early churches dedicated to Mary. But Alex wasn’t up for a tour. “Don’t you think the time would be better used in translating?”

“If I promise to get you what you need before Thursday, would you agree to go to the catacombs with me? It’s not just a field trip, Alex; it’s research.”

Before she could say yes—or no—he hailed a cab and they were tearing down the city streets. For a hefty tip, the cab dropped them as close to the catacombs as possible. For another tip to the curator, Declan and Alex cut to the front of the line of tourists waiting to get into the catacombs and descended alone down the staircase into darkness. Alex’s nose had to adjust as well as her eyes; the smell of mold and standing water was overwhelming.

Alex must have seemed disoriented because Declan grabbed her hand and expertly led her through crypt after crypt of narrow passageways and low ceilings. She’d been in the ancient catacombs twice before—once as a young tourist and once to study the frescoes deemed to be the earliest Christian art—but she didn’t remember the closeness of the crypts or the stagnancy of the air.

Not a moment too soon, they stopped in front of a wall painting of
the Virgin Mary holding the Christ child, alleged to be from the third century. The mother and son were not alone. The three Magis bowed to the pair, while one of the kings pointed to a star above Mary, presumably the star of Bethlehem.

“Here she is,” Declan said.

Alex had noticed the other figures before, but she hadn’t focused on the full nature of the scene. Her new knowledge changed her perception of the painting, as if she were looking at it through a prism. “It’s not really a Virgin Mary icon. It’s an Adoration of the Magi scene.”

“That gets left out of the literature, doesn’t it? It’s always proclaimed as the first image of the Virgin Mary.”

“But I don’t think that was the intention of the artist—or its patron. I think the artist was commissioned to paint a biblical scene, one that also included Mary and Jesus. And even if I’m wrong, this Mary was obviously meant to be not a widely disseminated devotional figure but a private picture for the deceased’s grieving family.”

Declan started pulling Alex through the catacombs toward another image, a mosaic. As they drew closer, Alex saw that it was another mother and child, one declared to be from the fourth or fifth century, depending on the source, and often heralded as another very early Virgin and infant Jesus. Squinting in the dim light, Alex stared at it: the picture indeed more closely resembled a Byzantine Madonna image, but it bore none of the iconographic hallmarks of either the Virgin Mary or the Christ child.

A guard motioned for their departure, and Declan and Alex wove through the catacomb without talking. Once they got outside, Declan hailed another cab. He turned to Alex with a wide grin. “So, do you think we’ve got the first icon of the Virgin Mary?”

For all her anger earlier that day, she couldn’t help but smile back. “I think we just might.”

The next morning, Alex and Declan made it to the research desk in the first Paoline room the very moment it opened. But Father Casaceli was already waiting. The older, dour priest had no time for their conversation; he led them toward the
Liber diurnus
.

Father Casaceli guided them into the third Paoline room, though both Alex and Declan doubted that the rare manuscript was stored there. Most delicate documents resided in specially designed, acclimatized rooms. Still, the priest made a show of unlocking one of the poplar cabinets and withdrawing the famous book and its related codices with great delicacy.

Without a word, he indicated that they should sit in one of the study cubicles and put on their sterile gloves. They followed his instructions to the letter, and he finally agreed to place the surprisingly small
Liber diurnus
before them. Father Casaceli pulled up a chair alongside them, and the security guard who had escorted them from room to room remained nearby.

Alex sat back and let Declan take charge. He skimmed the pages with relative ease, commenting from time to time when he came across an interesting tidbit of history. But within an hour and a half, he’d reached the last page. Alex was incredibly disappointed, even
though she knew she shouldn’t have expected anything. He hadn’t found their Decius reference.

“May I see Codex A, Father Casaceli?” Declan asked.

“Not finding anything of interest in the
Liber diurnus
?” Father Casaceli answered.

“It’s extremely interesting, Father. I’d love to dig into the sacred rites for electing popes, but I haven’t the time, you see? Maybe Codex A will point me in the right direction.”

Father Casaceli withdrew the
Liber diurnus
and replaced it in the poplar cabinet. As he laid Codex A before them, he said, with an ill-suited casualness, “Father Lipari tells me you are trying to verify a fifth-or sixth-century manuscript. Perhaps if you tell me a bit about it, I might be able to guide you.”

Alex’s stomach lurched, but Declan just smiled and turned to Codex A, saying, “I appreciate the offer, but I think I’ll just muddle through on my own.” As he flipped through the pages, he asked the priest, “So Father Casaceli, do you get many requests for the Gelasian Decree these days? You know, after
The Da Vinci Code
?”

Declan had switched the subject to one near to their hearts—banned Gospels—but also one undoubtedly reviled by Father Casaceli. It was a gamble, but it worked. The priest winced at Declan’s deft topic change and abandoned his own line of questioning. “Fortunately, we are a scholarly institution and not a tourist destination. That seems to weed out much of the riffraff seeking imagined church conspiracies and banned Gospels.”

“Glad to hear it.” They listened to the priest rant on about the conspiracy seekers while Declan turned the pages for another hour. Finally, he paused at a particular page in Codex A, and said, “You’ll be glad to hear that we’re nearly done taking up your time. I think I’ve found what we need. Would we be able to get a copy of this page?”

The priest quickly stood up and looked over Declan’s shoulder. “You are certain that this is the page you require?”

“Absolutely.”

“I should be able to get you a facsimile of that single page within an hour.” He picked up Codex A and walked off to speak with one of the librarians on duty.

“What was on that page?” Alex whispered to Declan.

“A late-fifth-century papal formulary of an apostolic exemption for a monastery.”

“Fascinating,” Alex said sarcastically. “What does it have to do with Decius?”

“It seems our scribe returned to Rome after his time in Ireland and took up his old role as papal scribe. The codex formulary is signed—‘so scribed by Decius.’ We have our proof.”

Brother
,

Imbolc came to Cill Dara. The word “Imbolc” means nothing to you, brother, for how could you know of this festival celebrated by a backward people who teeter on the very edge of the world? And how could you, or anyone else, ever imagine that this common fair hailing spring, no doubt grafted onto a Druidic ritual, would so change me? Yet I am transformed.

The winter-darkened Cill Dara enlivened in the days approaching this holiday. The religious and common folk of the abbey grew more animated than I had witnessed over the holy days of the birth of our Lord. Brigid invited me to participate in the ceremonies and revelry along with the rest of the community, and I tried to view it as a fresh chance to assess the unorthodox customs of the Gaels rather than another prospect to be with her. I found it nigh impossible to maintain this perspective.

You see, brother,
anmchara
, my desire for Brigid has not lessened over the days. If anything, watching her power in the grove only enhanced my feelings. Nor has my loathing of Valens abated. Though I
redoubled my efforts at resistance nightly, my feelings returned by daylight.

As to Imbolc, I knew not what to expect. Thus when the day’s work of ended and we entered the refectory, which was aglitter with candles and resplendent with Cill Dara’s finest food and ale, I was astonished at the splendor. After this repast, the merriment swept me up and out into the church, where Brigid conducted a particularly beautiful service before the sun set. Brother, I love to watch her preside over the Mass, staring at her to my heart’s content, though I know I should not.

The celebrants began to file out of the church, and I presumed the festivities had concluded. I’d started to walk in the direction of my hut when I heard a call.

“Decius, where are you going?”

I turned to see the leviathan Aidan lumbering toward me. “Come with us to the hilltop, Decius, or you will miss the finest part of the festival,” he said. “You must watch the sunrise ceremony with us.”

I joined his little assemblage of monk-scribes, and we headed toward the flat hill that presided over the plains of Cill Dara. As we rounded the near side of the hill and drew closer to the even crest of the mound, the sky grew bright. To my amazement, dozens of bonfires raged, and hundreds of people were already sitting in an enormous circle.

Brigid sat in the circle. She gestured for me to join her. While Aidan and the others found openings elsewhere, I lowered myself to the narrow space she’d indicated, to her left. Turning to the right, I saw Valens in the other space flanking Brigid. I thanked God for the darkness of night, for my face would have betrayed me.

Just then, Brigid rose, and the crowd rose along with her. She walked to the center of the circle as everyone joined hands. She raised her arms as if performing the rite of transubstantiation on the altar. In the setting, I expected sacrifices and rituals worthy of the pagan ceremonies of lore. Instead, Brigid invoked the Lord’s Prayer and then asked the participants to pray along with her.

“Glory to you, word. Glory to you, grace,” she began.

The assembly responded, “Amen.”

“Glory to you, spirit. Glory to you, holy one. Glory to your glory.”

“Amen.”

“We praise you, Father. We thank you, light, in whom no darkness lives.”

“Amen.”

The supplications and praise continued on. The words grew more and more familiar, though I could not place them until Brigid said, “I am a lamp to you who see me.”

“Amen.”

“I am a mirror to you who recognize me.”

“Amen.”

“I am a door to you who knock on me.”

“Amen.”

“I am a way to you, passerby.”

“Amen.”

I identified the phrases then. Brigid was incanting the words from one of the Gospels I’d found hidden in the scriptorium, one that purported to be a song Jesus taught His disciples just before He was crucified—the Round Dance of the Cross. Irenaeus, of course, had banned it centuries ago, but the verses were alive and well in Gael.

As we entered the blackest hours of the night, Brigid stopped speaking and settled next to me. Deep drums reverberated through the frigid air, and melancholy stringed instruments joined them in a song yearning for renewal. While Brigid swayed, her eyes closed in private prayer, I noticed that other celebrants had begun trailing off in pairs toward dark nooks in the plains where the light of the bonfires could not reach. I did not need to guess at their pursuits.

I closed my own eyes and surrendered to the drums’ low, sonorous rhythm. I began to experience that sense of submersion I’d felt on my arrival on Gael’s shores. This time, however, my vision wavered as if I rushed headlong into the conflagrations, and I felt born of fire, not water. I entered into a pure, elemental state so near God that I comprehended Brigid’s blend of the Gaels’ ancient rites and the church’s new teachings; together, they carried the power to transcend.

Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Startled out of my meditative mind-set, I needed a moment to regain my sense of time and place. Finally, I opened my eyes to see Brigid looking into them.

She gestured for me to follow her, and I wondered where—and to
what—she would lead. No words passed between us as I tracked her from the fires and the circle. She descended down the far side of the hill, onto the plains, with seeming purpose in her stride.

She arrived at a tiny crescent tucked into the hill. The niche was covered with low bushes, emptied of their leaves by winter’s chill. Even so, the recess felt snug and protected against the night. I recognized the place.

Brigid turned to me. “This site holds special meaning for me, Decius.”

Brother, I knew not what to say. The spot bore significance for me as well—I often visited it on solitary walks and relived those first few moments with Brigid—but I feared the admission. I feared that it held different importance for her than for me. “It does?”

“Yes. I first spied you from this place.”

“I remember well.”